


Born in the Wrong Century

by EnricoDandolo



Category: The Borgias
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Aut Caesar aut nihil, F/M, Intrigue, Sibling Incest, Vatican
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodrigo Borja is the epitome of the Renaissance pope: elected by bribery and conspiracy, the true parentage of his adoptive children is an open secret, and their ambition goes unchecked. With the aid of the duplicitous Caterina Sforza and his alleged Cardinal-nephew Cesare, he soon appears as a major player on the stage of Italian politics. The problem? It's the 21st Century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born in the Wrong Century

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Borgia fanfiction. This started out as a plot bunny and was persistent enough to make me write it. Yet it was a rather vapid bunny and failed to provide any satisfactory end to the plot (not entirely correct: there was an end to its plot, consisting of Rodrigo being shot while celebrating the opening mass of the Council in the Piazza San Pietro, the problem rather being how to get there). Accordingly, it is entirely unsatisfactory and rather loveless. It is also far too fucking long for an oneshot.
> 
> Anyway, this is a modern AU which was supposed to examine (humorously) how a Renaissance Pope such as Alexander VI would fare in the modern age. Then, plot got in the way. The primary problem is of course that the modern Church is no longer an institution of power, and thus that its echelons consist less of young debauched aristocrats and more of old and pious theologians. Shit. Doesn't work at all, does it? - I notice a tendency in my more recent works set in the modern time to include some degree of upliftingly proletarian civil unrest. Since I myself am bourgeois and happy, and Cesare / Lucrezia are bourgeois and proud of it, this came out rather more nightmare-ish.
> 
> This OS' relation to the show is mostly restricted to cursory glances and the character constellations. In particular, it comes back to the first and second seasons repeatedly, though I have finished season 3 whilst writing this (the finale was rather befitting a mediocre series with occasional bursts of brilliance, in particular, I liked the last scene and the fact that they FINALLY referenced Cesare's motto of Aut Caesar, aut nihil ... and then mistranslated it. Way to go, Showtime. I don't know what I expected from you.)
> 
> Pairing: Cesare x Lucrezia, hints of Caterina x Juan and Rodrigo x Giulia. Does this fandom really NEED an incest warning?
> 
> Originally posted on FanFiction.Net under the name of firelordzuko

Born in the Wrong Century

 

 

> _Henry, king not through usurpation but through the holy ordination of God, to Hildebrand, no longer Pope but false monk … not only hast thou not feared to lay hands upon the rulers of the holy church, the anointed of the Lord … but thou hast trodden them under thy foot like slaves ignorant of what their master is doing. Thou hast won favour from the common rabble by crushing them._
> 
>  
> 
> – Henry IV, King of the Germans, to Pope Gregory VII, 1076

 

 

Rodrigo Borja stiﬂed a yawn, looked around the Sistine Chapel, then at his wristwatch. Quarter past ten in the morning.

The passing away of the Holy Father had not been a surprise to anyone. For several years now he had been struggling along on medication and regular periods of hospitalisation. Hence, the death of Pius XIII had caused little disruption in the Church. Not even here, in the sacred halls of the Vatican City, had he noticed anything unusual during the preparations for the conclave. Of course, he liked to think, this was not least due to his own organisational talent – while the Camerlengo did most of the work, his own ofﬁce of Secretary of State brought with it a wide range of responsibilities even during _sede vacante._ According to tradition, he had resigned his ofﬁce upon the Pope's departure; but he still remained His Most Reverend Eminence Rodrigo Cardinal Borja, Archbishop of Valencia, Cardinal-Bishop of Porto-Santa Ruﬁna.

The titles sounded grandiose, but he felt little power as he ﬁlled in his own name on the tiny slip of paper in front of him, for, as it seemed, the hundredth time. _Elego in Summum Pontiﬁcium_ Rodrigum Borjam  _…_ He had lost track of how many votes he had cast. They had been in conclave for ﬁve days now as the world watched on, the longest since 1831. At four votes a day …

113 cardinal-electors. 76 was the required majority. In the ﬁrst ballot, he had come at 10 – mostly cardinals he had enticed with his considerable personal fortune. About forty each had gone to the Patriarch of Venice Sforza, the champion of tradition, and the Archbishop of São Salvador da Bahia, Cardinal Vilela, championed by the more progressive cardinals and those who preferred a Pope from South America or Africa. Borja thus came third, with the remaining cardinals having voted for several minor candidates. In the run-up to the conclave, Rodrigo had pretended not to care for the opinions of the bookmakers, but had in fact nervously checked up on his own odds on his phone just before the doors had been locked – they had been abysmal, with Paddy Power having him at 25-to-one.

Then again, there was a saying in the Curia, that he who enters conclave as pope leaves it as cardinal.

In the following ballots, his share of the vote had risen while Sforza and Vilela's had fallen.

This latest ballot came out 35 for him, 33 for Vilela, and 29 for Sforza. Beside that: six for della Rovere, ﬁve for Orsini, two for Adombeye, two for Williams, and one for Tzu. No cardinal, of course, had the required two-thirds majority, and Rodrigo rose from his seat with a groan when the dean of the college announced a recess until afternoon. “This is ridiculous,” Rodrigo told his neighbour, just loud enough that everyone could hear it without seeming blatant. “In these dire days, the Church needs a Pope, and soon.”

Most of the cardinals had abandoned their heavy choir dress days ago and reverted to either scarlet or black cassocks with a red sash. Rodrigo had omitted even that sign of his dignity. His cassock was plain black and visibly worn down, his pectoral cross silver, not gold. Indeed, he had almost not been admitted to the Sistine Chapel that very morning by a confused Swiss Guard – but that had only aided him. 

As the cardinals left the Sistine Chapel, Rodrigo fell in step beside Cardinal Sforza, one of the few who still wore full choir dress. “How long do you think they'll hold us in here?,” he light-heartedly asked him . 

Ascanio Sforza warily eyed him. “You tell me. Aren't you the kingmaker in this scenario?”

“Why would I be? Rather, wouldn't that role fall to you?”

“So you think I cannot win this election?”

Sighing, Rodrigo took him aside. “Let's face the facts. From the third ballot on, your count has been decreasing. You used to be runner-up, now you're third, while I have overtaken Vilela.” They stepped into an alcove to their left and stood by the window. Against the Roman sun, they could see the masses camping on the Piazza San Pietro. “We cannot make them wait much longer. They need the Church, and the Church needs a head in these troubled times.”

Sforza nodded. “But why you?”

“I did not choose this. I did not propose myself. But in the past days, I have communed with God, and I have spoken to many of our brother cardinals. They are deeply divided, and I'm afraid they reﬂect a division of the entire Church, from the Holy See down to the faithful in the parishes. And yet, those deep ravines are entirely trivial issues, are they not? What language shall we read mass in … how are we to deal with paedophile priests … what is our view on sexuality …”

“None of these issues are trivial, brother,” Sforza disagreed. “They touch the very heart of our faith, and of all morality.”

“But they do not matter to the faithful any longer. They have strayed. Surely even up in Venice, when you take confession, you hear more parishioners speak of adultery, homosexuality, using contraception, and so on than not, and they still believe themselves to be good Catholics.”

“Surely you do not mean to propose that we give way on these crucial issues?”

Rodrigo waved the suggestion aside. “No no, of course not. But with every day that passes in conclave, more of our faithful grow disillusioned with the Church. We need a pope who can inspire the masses into new zeal, and, most of all, who has the unanimous support of the Church.”

“And you want to be that pope.”

“Nothing further from it. Pius, may God rest his soul, was healthy and vigorous when we elected him eight years ago. I myself voted for him, believing he would be able to hold the ofﬁce long enough to leave his mark. The Papacy, I'm afraid, killed him way before his time. That is not the fate I desire for myself. But there must be a pope, and frankly, neither della Rovere nor Orsini has any chance at all. That leaves Vilela, you, and myself. Now, Vilela is dangerously progressive, as I'm sure you'll agree. He means well, but he will destroy the Church with his good intentions. You have all the right ideas, but our brothers fear you will be unable to reach out to the moderates and reform-minded parts of the Church, particularly in South America and Africa.”

“Meanwhile, you are neither a reformer nor a noted conservative,” Sforza ﬁnished his thoughts. “You think you can unite both sides?”

“I think I can, yes. _If_ you help me, of course – I am but a humble theologian, a family man. I do not have your talent for administration, and I would sorely miss it.”

The cardinal smiled. “I believe we have an understanding. I will talk to my supporters during lunch. With some luck, we may yet have a new Holy Father today.”

 

 

Over lunch, Rodrigo spoke to Cardinal Vilela, speaking Spanish so they would retain some degree of privacy in the electors' refectory. “I do not wish to speak ill of a fellow brother,” he said between two bites of sardine (he could barely keep himself from longingly gazing at the other cardinals' far more sustaining meals, but such was the price of humility), “but I'm beginning to fear Cardinal Sforza is a greater threat to the Church's survival than the Protestant Reformation.”

Vilela laughed quietly. A likeable man, very intelligent, but in all the wrong ways. A theologian, a man of letters, not one of the world, as Rodrigo was. “So, is he? Poor Martin Luther, he would spin in his grave. Why would you of all people think so?”

“It is becoming clearer with every day that passes. The Church cannot survive if we go on and on trying to act as if it were 1918. The world is changing, and so must the Church. If Cardinal Sforza were elected pope … I fear we would die out. In twenty years, the only Catholics left in Europe would be ancient Italian matrons who still vote for Mussolini.”

Warily, Vilela nodded. “I agree, of course. Still, I wouldn't have expected it from you. But … why are we talking about this? If you want to avoid Sforza winning, just throw your weight in with me.”

“Still not enough to win,” Rodrigo said. “Indeed, most of my supporters are moderates – the more conservative of them would probably revert to Sforza if I announced my support for you. And della Rovere and Orsini are beyond reason; Orsini will never vote for anyone but himself, and della Rovere will never support someone he does not believe in, and he believes in no one … but himself, of course. Now, if _you_ were to support _me_  …”

“Still not enough to win,” Vilela echoed him. “But enough to attract the undecided.”

“I believe we have an understanding, brother. Would you pass me the water, please?”

 

 

Rodrigo found his eldest son playing, of all things, a game of football in the Vatican gardens with some of the younger cardinals and a Swiss Guard. “What on earth are you doing?,” he hissed, drawing him away from the makeshift goalposts. One of the cardinals, Rodrigo knew him to be Cardinal Stavridis of the Greek-Byzantine Catholic Church, complained loudly. Considering that he at an estimated seventy years was one of the younger players on Cesare's team, it appeared they sorely needed his son on their team to stand a chance.

“Italy versus the rest of the world,” Cesare explained. “We lead three to two. The guardsman is playing for Italy, though, so it's fair.”

“We have no time for this …”

“Yes, we do, father. The next ballot isn't until the afternoon, and it's not as if anyone is going to change their minds without some persuasion …”

“Enough of this. I have made an agreement with Cardinals Sforza and Vilela. I want you to go and make sure they do not meet and talk about it, the agreements are somewhat contradictory. If you can, ﬁnd out which of their supporters refuse to switch to me, and see if you can bribe them. Be careful, though.”

Cesare nodded. “I will not disappoint you, father.” At a mere 26 years, he was but half as old as the second-youngest cardinal, ordained a priest mere two years ago and appointed cardinal in a highly unprecedented move by Pius XIII. Of course, it had been Rodrigo's idea, preparation for the battles to come, but his loud protest to the appointment of his nephew at this young age had persuaded the world that he'd had no hand in it. Of course, people had joked about Pius' reasons for making the handsome youngster a cardinal-priest in the Congregation for Catholic Education, but (as Rodrigo had told him) there was no reason to care, nor worry; there had been popes younger than him. 

Cesare had pointed out that the Middle Ages were over.

 

 

The look on the cardinals' faces when the ﬁnal vote count was pronounced was indescribable. Cardinals Sforza and Vilela did the maths, looked at each other, then at their new pontiff, and paled. The Dean of the College turned to Rodrigo, “ _Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontiﬁcium?_ ”

“ _Accepto_.”

Vilela jumped to his feet. “But … how on earth did you get 97 … wait, don't tell me you _conspired_  …”

“What might you be insinuating, brother?,” Sforza coldly interrupted him, having already settled into his new role. The Brazilian cardinal broke off and fell back into his seat. Rodrigo couldn't help but smile. He had gone into the conclave a cardinal, and would leave it a Pope. Giving a slight nod towards Cesare on the other side of the chapel, he rose to his feet and stepped before the altar. “I accept,” he repeated, this time in Italian.

“What he is insinuating,” said suddenly a harsh voice from behind him, and he whirled around to ﬁnd that della Rovere had risen, “is that Cardinal Borja has not won this election, but _bought_ it.”

The cardinals who protested the loudest where those he had bought. “That is preposterous!,” Rodrigo bristled. “There is no basis to such an accusation!”

“Giuliano,” the Dean intervened, “You seem to be quite agitated, how about you retire for a while …?”

The Italian would have none of it. “Cardinal Borja,” he insisted, “How about you tell us, roughly, what you have in mind for the Church under your papacy?”

That caught the attention of the college. Rodrigo took his time in replying. It was obvious what he was aiming at, to force him to commit to either bloc and lose the support of the other. And yet, the path ahead was clear. He had waited a lifetime for this moment, he would not be outgambitted this easily. “The issues the Church is facing these days are too grave, too complex for any one man to resolve,” he ﬁnally said as he directed his gaze upwards, to Michelangelo's magniﬁcent ceiling frescoes. “I intend to let the Holy Ghost inspire us to ﬁnd the answers. Brothers, I promise – no, I vow! – to call for a general council of the Church Militant within the ﬁrst year of my papacy.”

Della Rovere's frown deepened as he tried to understand Rodrigo's reasoning. Good luck with that, Rodrigo thought, since he had no intention of keeping that vow. A white lie at worst, and due to the rules of the conclave, one which would never leave the Sistine Chapel.

Sforza gave a thin-lipped smile. “Well, that settles it then. Shall we proceed?”

 

 

“ _And now, back to our correspondents in St. Peter's Square._ ”

“Thank you, Donald. It's half past six local time, twenty minutes since we have seen white smoke over the Sistine Chapel. The Piazza is packed, the Carabinieri have closed the Via della Conciliazione to trafﬁc as all Rome is heading to see its new bishop …”

“There's movement on the balcony.”

“Indeed, there's the cardinal-protodeacon, who will announce the outcome of the conclave … he steps to the mike … let's just listen in, shall we?”

“ _Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Habemus Papam! … Eminentissimum ac reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum_ _Rodericum_ _Sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ Cardinalem_ _Borgia_ _, qui sibi nomen imposuit_ _Alexandrum_  …”

“Ladies and gentlemen, Pope Alexander! The new pope is named Alexander, the ninth, I believe, an odd choice. Did you get his name?”

“Rodrigo Borja, of Spain. Archbishop of Valencia, I believe. Wait a moment … here, I've got it. Used to be an oil tycoon and multiple billionaire before taking the cloth – he owns _Borja-Gandia Toroil_. and has a reputation as a family man …”

“A family man? For pope?”

“Appears he adopted his late brother's children after he died in an accident. Cardinal Cesare Borja, who is standing behind him on the balcony, then Juan, who took over his uncle's company, niece Lucrezia, and nephew Joffre. An unorthodox pope, to be sure, but not entirely unprecedented; beside the Renaissance popes, several popes were married …”

“But no precedent in modern times?”

“Not that I'm aware of. Wait, appears he's going to speak …”

 

 

“God knows I missed you, Cesare.”

He put up a token resistance before returning his sister's embrace. “I've missed you too. I feared that damn conclave would separate us forever …” He playfully began covering her neck in kisses, and she moved her head a little to ease his approach.

“Oh, you know me, brother,” she joked, “As if guards and locks could ever keep me from you for long. Ah, at least wait until we're home …”

“Don't think I can wait much longer. Are they upon you yet? The press, I mean.”

“Not much,” Lucrezia replied, pushing him away. “Joffre thinks he saw a weird van parking in front of the house, and a friend from one of my classes texted about an hour ago that she'd been approached by someone from _The Sun_. Sent him – oh, stop that!” She slapped his wandering hand away. It was a good thing she had for once thought to draw back the curtains and raise the Rolls-Royce Phantom's partition wall; after all, the chauffeur was paid by their father. 

Cesare, still in his crimson cassock, pouted at her. Despite her best intentions, she couldn't help but smile and take his hand. “I wonder, though,” Lucrezia continued, “what might become of us.”

“Us, my love?”

“Of course. The world will want to know about us, the family of the new pope. Britain's royal family will have nothing against us. We will have to be even more careful to avoid discovery …”

“I'm sick of this,” her brother heatedly interjected. “I'm sick of lying, I'm sick of pretending. Who cares what people think about us? We are _Borjas_.”

Lucrezia sighed. They had had that conversation before. “You know full well, Cesare. You are a cardinal and have sworn a vow of celibacy, oh, and we're siblings. No one in Italy, no one in Europe, no one in the entire world will understand us. We may never share our live and love publicly.”

“I know, I know.” Cesare's thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. “This cannot go on, sis,” he quietly said. “I've told you before, we should end this while we still can. It's too dangerous for both of us.”

Lucrezia leaned over to kiss him. “You couldn't end it. Neither could I.”

The Royce halted. They parted and stepped out into a storm of ﬂashes.

 

 

“Good morning, father. Mother.”

“Morning, Cesare.” At Vanozza's suggestion, they had been having breakfast in the Vatican Gardens for several weeks now – Rodrigo had suggested that the family retire to the apostolic summer palace of Castel Gandolfo until the dust of the election had settled, but the fact that Lucrezia's and Joffre's studies at _La Sapienza_ would continue in early September had made that infeasible. 

There had been nothing to worry about. Though situated amidst the trafﬁc and noise of Rome, barely a sound penetrated the thick walls of the Vatican and the maze of hedges, lawns and groves of its gardens. A table had been set up near a Baroque fountain, at which Cesare's parents sat. His father, all in white, put aside last evening's _L'Osservatore Romano_. “Hand me the _Repubblica_ , would you?,” the Pope asked, indicating a stack of freshly-printed newspapers. Cesare did so, then had an attendant pour him some coffee and picked a pastry. 

Having read the headlines, Rodrigo gave a quiet chuckle. “My, my. Did you know your brother takes his shareholders on tours of Hungarian brothels?”

“Wouldn't put it past him.”

“Me neither. Still, that must stop. _Borja-Gandia Toroil S.A._ has a reputation to uphold, and beside that there's the matter of my papacy to consider. Giuliano della Rovere has held a rather worrisome sermon about being _conciliatory_ in his cathedral of Genoa last Sunday. He is attacking me, I can feel it.”

“There are steps to be taken against a troublesome priest …”

“Don't be silly. The Renaissance is over, we live in a pluralistic society now. Ah, Lucrezia, my dear! Did you sleep well?”

His sister's arrival – still in pyjamas, messy hair and all – brought a smile to his lips. Her hand deliberately brushed against his as she sat next to him. “Very well. I had the, er, most _enjoyable_ night.” Rodrigo laughed at her choice of words, but the siblings shared a knowing smile. “How are you this morning, Holy Father?”

“Excellent, excellent. I think I'm ﬁnally settling into my sacred ofﬁce. I'll be meeting with the Italian president today – God knows how he can spare the time when the country is falling apart at the seams and it's only weeks until the independence referendum in the North …”

“I suppose he can't afford not to meet with the Pope,” Cesare suggested. “Try and get a word of support from you.”

“Well, thank God that is none of my concern! _Ah, Constantine, how much evil was born / not from your conversion, but from that donation, / that the ﬁrst wealthy pope received from you!_ I, for one, am glad the state I govern is small enough to give me so much time to govern my herd.”

Cesare raised an eyebrow. “Govern? That implies power.”

“Brother …”

The Pope sighed. “I have told you before, my son. The power that you and I hold is far greater than that you ascribe to your brother. Yes, money and oil can make people do what you want them to do. But God – God, and faith, can make people _believe_! It is the duty of the clergy, its highest duty, to inspire mankind and guide it …”

“But in the end, money gets you hoes,” interrupted the voice of Juan as he stumbled, bare-chested, towards their table, a lightly-dressed girl that couldn't be much older than sixteen on his arm.

“Watch your tongue, young man!,” Vanozza warned her son with some indignation. 

He barely listened. “Dad, er, Holy Father, this is, ah, Theresa …”

“Sancia.”

“Of course, of course …”

“Juan Borja!,” the Pope sharply interrupted and rose to his feet. “What have I told you about propriety?” He beckoned one of the Swiss halberdiers guarding the papal family's breakfast to escort the girl outside the sacred walls of the Vatican while Juan sat at the table and quaffed two cups of coffee in quick succession. Once Sancia was out of sight, Rodrigo slowly sat again. “Our situation is tenuous enough as it is. You should start behaving like an adult. Do you hear me, Juan?”

Juan mumbled some kind of acquiescence into his coffee. 

“That includes those special trips for your shareholders,” he pointedly added. No reply came forth. “How about you start by taking your sister and brother to their classes, then?”

“Joffre doesn't have classes on Wednesdays,” Lucrezia pointed out.

“What, has he dropped out of Signora Farnese's tutorial?”

“Professor Farnese teaches postgrad psychology, not law, father. _I_ am in her tute, not Joffre.”

The Pope threw his hands in the air. “How on earth is one supposed to keep track of all those lecturers? When I made my JCD in Bologna, I had one tutor, a Franciscan named Father Raphael, and that was it!”

“I ﬁnd that rather hard to believe …”

“I can take you,” Cesare offered his sister.

“We have chauffeurs for that,” Lucrezia pointed out, smiling patiently. “I can just go by myself.” He didn't bother to hide his disappointment and his sister laughed and kissed his cheek.

“How about you invite Professor Farnese over for dinner some time?,” Rodrigo suggested between two bites of pastry. “Tell her I have a keen interest in psychology and have been thinking about funding some research.” Vanozza threw him a pointed look he didn't seem to register.

“I can't just invite my professor into the Apostolic Palace, father. It's embarrassing.”

“You're a Borja, darling. You need not be ashamed of anything.”

Lucrezia sighed. “But I am. Being on campus has been … awkward, to say the least, since your election. People behave differently. My friends shy away, but everyone is staring at me and talking behind their back …”

“I imagine being on the covers of all the magazines doesn't help.”

“ _Juan!_ ”

“Not that kind of magazine, I swear!” The middle brother dodged a thrown orange and the Pope laughed loudly.

“You're famous now, sis,” Cesare said, laying an arm around her. “You had it coming all along. Lady Diana has nothing against you.”

They were interrupted by the pope's personal secretary, an Alsatian priest named Johann Burchard, who was followed by two papal gendarmes carrying large baskets full of letters and e-mail printouts. “Your Holiness' post for this morning.”

Rodrigo's eyes widened in disbelief. “Is it all personal? Shouldn't the secretariat deal with it?”

“I am quite afraid we proved unable to answer several enquiries. We were hoping Your Holiness might take a moment to go through them before your audience with the president at 12.”

“But I …” The Pope sighed. “Oh, well. Cesare, Vanozza, dear, be so kind.” He took a printout from the top of the ﬁrst basket. “From the London _Times_. Are they all from newspapers?”

“And broadcasters, and episcopal conferences, and encyclopædias. Several enquiries each from AP, Reuters and other news agencies.”

“Hmm. Let's see … _have been unable to ﬁnd any records of Your Holiness' late brother, the father of your adoptive children._ ” Cesare gave a slight cough, there were none. “His name was Teodoro Llançol y de Borja. We called him Theo,” his father decided after a pause. Cesare ﬁgured his next task would be to convince his mother's ex-husband to change his name or disappear without a trace. “Two years younger than I. Died in a car accident when the children were small – little Cesare was seven, and Vanozza was still pregnant with Joffre. Horrible, really.”

Burchard took some notes, then nodded. Vanozza opened the next letter, skimmed it, and hesitated, sharply sucking in air. “What is it, dear?”

“Cesare, Lucrezia,” their mother ﬁnally said, “is it true you still share a bed at times?”

Juan laughed as if he had unexpectedly come across something long-awaited, but his siblings didn't even halt to think about their answer. “Of course not,” Cesare said at once with indignation. “Not since we were children.”

Nodding, the Pope reached for another printout. “Don't be silly, dear,” he told Vanozza. “The tabloids like a good scandal, they'll take whatever they can get. Luckily there's slander laws and lawyers to invoke them. Such a baseless accusation does not even merit a reply.”

“Just to be certain,” Lucrezia insisted. “I don't want any such rumours going around.”

“'Crezia is right, father. We cannot tolerate this.”

“Alright, alright. Oho, this one is from our dear Greek brother, the …,” he took a deep breath before reading out the letterhead, “His Most Divine All-Holiness the Archbishop of Constantinople New Rome and Ecumenical Patriarch. I wonder what he wants, we met just a few weeks ago at my inauguration mass.” Rodrigo skimmed the incipit, then uttered a most unchristian curse.

“What is it, father?”

“He seems to assume that we are planning to hold a major general council within the year and is asking that Orthodox representatives be invited as observers..” He paused, then snarled: “This letter bears the stench of della Rovere. He is plotting against my papacy, that much is clear. Announcing a council in the conclave was a rushed mistake and the cardinals will never stop pestering me about it. But what good could a council do him …?”

“There is nothing to worry about,” Cesare assured his father. “The only one who can call a general council of the Church is the pope.”

Lucrezia frowned. “Wasn't the Great Western Schism ended by a council? Who convoked that one?”

Rodrigo paled. “Your sister is right, Cesare. The Council of Constance in 1414-18 was called by the Antipope John XXIII and conﬁrmed by Gregory XII … and deposed all three popes, in Rome, Pisa, and Avignon.”

“And, before that,” Burchard pointed out, “the Council of Pisa, in 1409, which was not called, but convened out of its own incentive and tried to depose two popes only to instate a third one.”

“So that's what he's after …,” the Pope mused. “According to Vatican I and Pius' IX constitution _Pastor æternus_ , I am infallible when speaking _ex cathedra_. But so, of course, is an ecumenical council of bishops. Indeed, the earliest four councils we consider to be inspired by the Holy Ghost and dogmatically infallible.”

“In short,” Vanozza concluded, “Della Rovere wants to depose you by calling a council. Good luck with that. It's not the middle ages, dear. It's not 1409.”

Sighing, Rodrigo nodded. “I suppose you're right. In the end, I am still the Vicar of Christ our Lord, and nothing della Rovere can conceivably do will change that.”

“Shall we continue?” Cesare ripped open another letter. “By something called the _Movimento Santa Forza_  … Movement Holy Power. Whatever that is supposed to mean. Apparently they abbreviate it S. Forza.”

“Not related to our Ascanio, I hope.”

“Ask him. Uh … nothing important. A splinter party that wants to restore the Papal States to their former glory. Nutjobs.” When he put the envelope away, a photograph fell out. A woman in business dress, with a somewhat longish and angular face but well-shaped lips and curves and a ﬂood of chestnut locks. According to a note scribbled on the back of the photo, her name was Caterina Riario and was president of the S. Forza party.

“Heh,” said Juan, looking over his shoulder, grinning broadly as he examined the picture, “I think we should take those people seriously. I've got some free time today, let's see if I can met with them.” The Pope merely laughed and nodded his approval.

 

 

Lifting the skirt of his cassock high to avoid muddying it, Cardinal della Rovere stepped over the doorsill – if, indeed, it could be called that, for the church of Father Jerônimo Savonarola was not made of brick. Instead, the friar had somehow taken a hold of a public square that might once have been a football ﬁeld in the centre of Rio's greatest _favela_ , erected a table of the Lord in its midst and held his services under the open sky. Della Rovere found this troublesome, for that meant the tabernacle and its sacred contents were protected by only a simple padlock. His guide, however, had assured him that no one in the slum, nay, all Rio, would dare to lay a ﬁnger on the Eucharist Savonarola had blessed.

Mass was in full swing. The square was packed to the brim, and further people were crowding behind the windows of the adjacent huts and houses. Many were praying, loudly. With the aid of his guide, a brother from a local Jesuit priory, the Cardinal made his way to the front to hear the friar's sermon.

“ _Do not think I came to bring peace on Earth; I did not come to bring peace but to bring a sword!_ Thus says the Lord our Saviour! The time has come to follow Him, brothers and sisters, to sell your cloak and buy a sword and raise it against your oppressors! Many of you come to me every week to complain of your lot: you have nothing! You will always have nothing! You live in the most abject, the most inhumane destitution; and those who have made themselves your masters would rob you even of your humanity! To them, you are no better than dirt under their shoes! You cry out to heaven, you ask for what sin the Lord punishes: but the God of Israel does not punish you! It is yourself who punishes; for God is the best helper, but He loves to be helped. Be earnest in prayer, but do not neglect human means. You must help yourself in all manner of ways and then the Lord will be with you! Do you wish to be free? Then above all things, love God, love your neighbour, love one another, love the common weal; then you will gain true liberty. Be the hailstorm that shall break the heads of those who do not take shelter, brothers and sisters! Behold the sword of the Lord, swift and sure, over the Earth!”

The homily went on like this for nearly half an hour, often interrupted and drowned by Amens from the crowd. Then, Savonarola and several other priests in his company celebrated the Eucharist and distributed it amongst the congregation. At last, mass ended, and the people crowded even closer around the friar to receive his blessing. After a while, Cardinal della Rovere stood face to face with the preacher. “If you don't mind, I would like a word in private, brother.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Giuliano della Rovere. I am Cardinal-Archbishop of Genoa.”

Savonarola did not attempt to hide his disgust as he examined him with sharp, bloodshot eyes. “I have nothing to hide from my congregation, brother.”

This was not a good start, clearly. And while addressing him as “brother” was not precisely an insult, “Eminence” or “Father” would have been more appropriate. “I would _prefer_ to speak in private …”

“Here and now is ﬁne.”

The cardinal hesitated, then he switched into Latin to preserve some degree of privacy. “You are aware of the rumours concerning the Borja pope and his family?”

Savonarola proved uncooperative and replied in Portuguese, a language the cardinal was not particularly proﬁcient in. “Which rumour? There are many and more.”

“That Rodrigo Cardinal Borja is an only child and the natural father of his adoptive children. That he lives in open breach of celibacy. That his children habitually engage in incest. That he bought his election, to which I can personally attest. _Those_ rumours.”

The friar scoffed. “Not rumours, facts.”

“How would you know?”

“God has shown me.”

The cardinal made a mental note to condemn the friar as a borderline heretic once he ascended to the Holy See.

“If that is all you have to tell me, cardinal …”

“At the end of the conclave, Cardinal Borja took a solemn vow upon the altar of the Sistine Chapel to call an ecumenical council of the Church within the ﬁrst year of his papacy. That year is almost over, and there has been no announcement of any kind from the Vatican. I am sure you will agree, Brother Savonarola, that a council is essential to set a new path for the Church in the 21st Century and also investigate the election and lifestyle of the usurper on the throne of St. Peter's. If need be, I will organise this council myself in the name of the college of bishops. It is high time the hierarchy shows some teeth to Rome.”

“What does that concern me? I am no part of your hierarchy, and but a simple priest.”

“You may ﬁnd, brother, that the Lord has destined you for greater honours. I would like you to preach the council amongst your followers, and tell them about the crimes of the Borja pope. In return, I am certain the council is going to show liberation theology and the charismatic renewal a lot more consideration than previous popes have done …”

“And you would be the next pope?”

Della Rovere hesitated. Something about the preacher's bloodshot eyes made him feel very uneasy indeed. “If my brother cardinals' choice should fall on me, I would be honoured to accept.”

Savonarola stared at him. “It is God alone who makes our choices, brother. Don't forget that. And it was God who willed that the Borja ape should become pope. You may ﬁnd that the papacy might soon stop being desirable. I have had a vision a while ago, cardinal, the meaning of which is slowly becoming clear to me.”

“What did you see?” This man was dangerous for the Church, della Rovere decided. He would have to be restrained, perhaps he could be forbidden from preaching publicly. Soon, once his orations were no longer required.

“I saw a gun being ﬁred at a priest celebrating mass. I saw rivers of blood ﬂowing through the streets of Rome. I saw foreign armies marching through Italy. And all had been brought about by a cardinal who tried to place himself above God's voice in conclave. Is that cardinal you, Giuliano della Rovere?”

 

 

Soon upon his arrival in Rome, Cesare had borrowed his father's Maserati GranTurismo to surprise his sister by picking her up from a morning lecture. He had ignored the panicked objections of the Swiss Guard ofﬁcer on duty and gone alone and unarmed. Not that he was anonymous as he leaned against the car in front of La Sapienza University's Department of Psychology: his face was known to all the world these days, he wore the scarlet-trimmed black cassock, scarlet sash and gem-encrusted pectoral cross of a cardinal and the Maserati bore a Vatican registration plate. Perhaps the students around him were intimidated by him, for they widely avoided him.

Cesare unﬂinchingly watched the main entrance of the psychology building. After his arrival from Nice barely an hour ago, he had only just found time to deposit his suitcase in his apartment in the Apostolic Palace and inquire about his sister's whereabouts, so he did not actually know when her lecture would end. After waiting by the car for about 15 minutes, he decided to forego the surprise and got out his phone to text Lucrezia when he saw a new message from Charlotte and uttered a curse. _remmbr dinr on d beach? Chi got pix n wn2 publish. fkn papparazzi._

Well, that opened an entirely new Pandora's box. He had been reckless with Charlotte – thought that Lucrezia was the only one he would have to hide his brief dalliance from. He had not at all considered that the danger might be from a different direction entirely. Knowing _Chi_ , a Milanese gossip magazine fond of publishing incriminating photos of celebrities, preferably in states of undress, there was nothing to stop them from publishing the pictures. Nevertheless, he was tempted to call Juan's ofﬁce and get in touch with some of the _Toroil_ lawyers, when he saw his sister's angelic ﬁgure step out of the building before him. 

Dressed in jeans and a lime green blouse, she was followed in some distance by two suited bodyguards from the Italian police force, and vividly conversing with a dark-haired, tanned, _male_ fellow student. At once, Cesare tensed – the instinct of a predator feeling its territory being violated – but forced himself to relax. He should be glad his sister had found a friend at last. 

When Lucrezia discovered her brother, she uttered a choked crow and ran into his arms, almost dropping her bag. “Cesare!” 

He held her tight and kissed her. “I've missed you, sis.”

“I've missed you too, so much.” After a moment, they parted. “Ah … Cesare, I'd like you to meet Paolo. Paolo, this is my dear brother, Cesare Borja.”

This Paolo person seemed duly intimidated, somehow managing to pale and blush at the same time as he tried to reunite a bow and a handshake. “Er, p...pleased to meet Your Eminence.”

Cesare brieﬂy shook his hand. “Likewise.”

“Paolo and I share some of our classes,” Lucrezia explained. “We're collaborating on our Laurea's theses. Actually, we had just been planning to have lunch together …” She threw Paolo a quizzical look.

“I'm afraid that will have to wait,” Cesare quickly intervened. “The car has only two seats.” To his surprise, his sister gave him a glare that was downright scolding. He ignored it, opened the passenger door and offered her his hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Are you coming, my love?”

Lucrezia hesitated, then she brieﬂy hugged her friend and got in the car. Cesare dismissed her bodyguards. As he took the driver's seat and started the motor, he couldn't hide his satisfaction. “That was very rude of you,” Lucrezia said after a moment.

“You must chastise me, then.”

“What has he ever done to you that you treat him like this?”

Cesare scoffed and put the pedal to the metal. Thankfully at this time the Viale del Muro Torto was reasonably free; the speed gave him something to distract him from the boy Paolo's foolish grin. “He doesn't love you, sis,” he grimly said. “Not as I do.”

“How would you know? Slow down a little, you'll cause an accident.”

“Because no one will ever love you like I do. Never.”

“You wouldn't take me with you to France.”

He sighed. “I was _working_ , my love. You know that. Besides, going together would have been a feast for the yellow press.”

“Is that why you are cheating on me with Charlotte d'Albret?”

Cesare almost lost control of the car. There had been no anger in Lucrezia's voice, but also no warmth. Bitterness. “How … how do you know about this …?”

His sister rolled her eyes. “If you want to keep secrets from me, I recommend you change your e-mail password once in a while. It's been _heloise_ as long as I can remember, which is sweet, but not very effective.”

They crossed the Tiber and entered the Via Ottaviani. Cesare reached for her hand, but she withdrew it. “I am sorry … truly sorry. It was nothing more than a brief ﬂing, you have to believe me.”

“Do I now.”

Cesare was tempted to drive over and kiss her, properly this time. “I love you, sis,” he quietly insisted. “And only you. I swear it upon all that is sacred to me.” As he approached the Via della Conciliazione, the boulevard connecting St. Peter's to the Castel Sant'Angelo, Cesare noticed greater numbers of pedestrians than usual. Many of them were carrying banners and signs. He paid it no heed; had he not greater concerns? While he had absolute faith that his sister loved him, he had clearly mistreated her with his betrayal. He could not bear the thought of displeasing her. “I missed you so much,” Cesare whispered.

“I missed you too. If we're being honest with each other … Paolo reminded me of you, somehow. That's all I saw in him: you.” When Cesare lowered the gear, she put her hand on his. “Let all be forgiven. But do not forget this, my love: you are mine, and mine alone, and I am yours, and only yours.”

When they entered the Conciliazione, they were stuck. Thousands of people were ﬁlling the street, carrying ﬂags, signs, and banners. Many had covered their faces with scarves and bandannas, as if expecting the police to use tear gas – what police? Cesare could see not a single gendarme. Irritatingly, they were marching away from St. Peter's, not towards it. Chanted paroles were in the air, the loudest being “ _Tricolore: verde, bianco, bianco!_ ,” but also “It's not a crisis, it's the system!” and “The people want to bring down the regime!”

Cesare honked, but there was no way through the mass of protesters. Trying to drive backwards and take the Via Sant'Anna to the Swiss Guard barracks instead, he found the same. With a deep sigh he stopped the Maserati's motor and dropped his hands from the wheel. “Well, sorry about that. Seems we'll have to wait … wait, what are you … Lucrezia!” Uttering a curse, he drew the key and got out of the car, locking it before running off in pursuit of his sister, who was apparently intent on ﬁghting her way against the protest march west to the Vatican. “Wait, sis!” Catching up to her, Cesare put his arm around her. “Let's stay close. I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“You think the protest will turn militant?”

“ _Verde, bianco, bianco! Verde, bianco, bianco!_ Bled white and betrayed!”

Cesare did not bother ﬁght against the chants and reply, instead drawing his sister further down the boulevard. Passing a bank, he saw that its windows had been smashed and ﬁres were burning inside. Someone bumped into him, making the siblings stumble, and suddenly they were surrounded by at least a dozen protesters, mostly younger than them, gaunt and poorly-clothed. University students, Cesare assumed, now destitute. In their eyes stood anger, desperation, betrayal. “Your blessing, Eminence …,” one of them said and Cesare quickly made the sign of the cross.

“Where is the Church?,” another accused him, pointing at his golden, gem-encrusted pectoral cross. He spit at him and barely missed Cesare's face. “How dare you …!” Lucrezia drew him away before he could attack the student. 

A woman carrying a rainbow ﬂag screamed something at him he did not understand, but could imagine. And suddenly, everyone around them was masked with scarves, hoods and masks, all in black. Many wore motorcycle helmets. Just next to the siblings, someone threw a burning bottle at a shop window – Cesare noticed that they had not gotten a step closer to the Vatican, but indeed were pushed by the crowd in the opposite direction. The Molotov cocktail crashed through a window and exploded in a huge ﬁreball. Lucrezia screamed and tightly gripped her brother's hand. He in his cardinal's cassock and she in her lime-green blouse stood out in the black bloc, and people started targeting them. You have no right to be here, they said, amongst the outraged, the disenfranchised, when you have taken from us all we had. “Pope's bastards!,” “Sisterfucker!” Someone got hold of Cesare's pectoral cross and managed to rip it from its chain, he did not bother to go after them. 

Panicking, he drew Lucrezia away, towards a side road – only to ﬁnd people screaming, thrown bricks, ﬁres on the asphalt. Somewhere behind the smoke he could see a line of police in riot gear pummelling the rioters with their batons, and when one of the policemen threw a tear gas grenade from behind the barricade of riot shields, the siblings ran.

Thick white fume enveloped them; Cesare pressed his sleeve over his sister's face, closed his eyes and stumbled forward blindly. Bumping into someone, he stumbled and fell, Lucrezia lifted him up. “Look, Cesare!”

Opening his eyes, he found that they had successfully ﬂed the tear gas, but now were back in the Via della Conciliazione. The march had reversed, the black bloc had resolved: screaming in fear and pain, all Rome seemed to run in headless panic towards the Vatican. He saw a young woman stumble over someone's leg, no one paid her any heed, and when he saw her a moment later, she lay face-down on the pavement and didn't seem to breathe. Lucrezia pointed out the cause of their terror, and the Cardinal beheld Apocalypse. From Castel Sant'Angelo, the marchers were herded westwards by a line of mounted Carabinieri slowly riding down the road in close formation. Those who did not ﬂee, or could not, were trampled under their hooves.

“Run, brother!”

They ran. 

The stream had changed direction: everywhere around them, people were ﬂeeing to St. Peter's. “They'll be trapped!,” Lucrezia screamed to him. “The piazza is a dead end!” _They_ could ﬂee into the Apostolic Palace, the guards would recognise them, but the people of Rome would be pincered between Bernini's colonnades, Michelangelo's basilica, and the riot police. There would be rivers of blood in the streets of Rome … 

“Doesn't matter now!,” he screamed back, still holding her hand as they ran. Cesare threw a look over his shoulder, the horsemen had switched into a thundering canter. 

And then, the asphalt under their feet changed to cobblestone as they entered the Vatican. Lucrezia slipped on the stone, screamed his name as her hand slipped from his grasp. “Lucrezia!,” he shouted and the police were but a hundred metres away … he turned on his heel and ran back to help her up. “Are you hurt?,” he yelled over the cacophony. 

She shook her head. The Carabinieri charged in full gallop, entered Saint Peter's Square, long, sword-like batons raised … the basilica was within their grasp, but they would never reach it. Cesare looked at his sister, and, with his last breath shouted: “I love you, sis.”

Someone in front of them shouted something in German, “ _Hellebarden vorwärts!_ ” The siblings barely avoided the halberds' axe-blades. A gloved hand closed around Cesare's left arm. “Cardinal Borja! _Hellebardier, bringen Sie sie in Sicherheit!_ ”

The charge had halted, and now he realised why: no less than sixty brightly-uniformed men had formed a line at the mouth of the square. The Papal Swiss Guard … the riot police had found themselves faced by sharp, gleaming halberds pointed in their direction. Those who had been able to halt their horses before contact knew not how to deal with the papal intervention, those who had not been so fortunate had been thrown off their shying horses, who would not charge into the Swiss blades.

But the details didn't matter. “We live …,” Lucrezia gasped. He drew her into a deep embrace and hungrily kissed her, onlookers be damned. He made it last; drank her hot breath, danced with her little tongue, tasted the moment. Ecstasy, high on adrenaline. It was absolutely perfect, how it had always been destined to be. They were made for this moment, this moment was all they were: one heart, one ﬂesh, one eternal soul. But every moment must end, and after what seemed to Cesare like hours, yet shorter than a second, they parted, gasping for air. “Jesus loves us, sis …”

 

 

The guardsman led them towards the basilica. At the top of the stairs before the portal stood, angelic all in white, their Holy Father, blessing and kissing the refugees as though they were pilgrims. Those who had moments before thrown stones and ﬁrebombs quietly sat on the marble ﬂoor. Rodrigo quietly embraced his children and led them inside the basilica. Cesare still held his sister's hand behind their father's back. Halfway through the nave, the Pope knelt and made the sign of the cross before the tabernacle, and Cesare, thinking of Mahler, recited: “ _Höchste Herrscherin der Welt! / Lasse mich im blauen, / Ausgespannten Himmelszelt / Dein Geheimnis schauen. / Billige, was des Mannes Brust / Ernst und zart beweget / Und mit heiliger Liebeslust / Dir entgegenträget._ ” Lucrezia squeezed his hand.

“Indeed,” said the Pope, weakly. Cesare suddenly realised how old and frail his father was. “But for now, we have more urgent duties. Today will have consequences for all of us. I will summon the Italian ambassador at once, before the Italians can summon my apostolic nuncio. Beyond that? We fear we shall once more be the prisoner in the Vatican.”

“Never, Holy Father,” he replied, letting go of Lucrezia's hand to support the Pope. Standing before the Papal Altar, the three of them turned around to face the portal, wide open. In the distance, there were still ﬁres burning along the Conciliazione and on the piazza the stand-off between the Carabinieri and the Swiss continued, now with the arrival of several broadcasting vans. But the ﬁghting had stopped as the stream of the refugees slowly trickled into the basilica. Many were hurt, by tear gas, batons, or the panicked ﬂight of the mob, and were supported and cared for by nuns from the convent Mater Ecclesiæ and the Papal Household. 

Saint Peter's imposed reverence on those who ventured within its walls. It was just before noon, and shafts of lights fell through the windows of Michelangelo's dome, illuminating the spot the three Borjas stood in like a sign of God. Though there must have been at least a few hundred people inside the basilica, there was, in a sense, a perfect silence. People cried, quietly talked, prayed. Every sound echoed throughout the nave. “Look at them, father,” Cesare whispered. “You have saved lives today. No matter what your detractors say, to those people of Rome you are a truer Vicar of Christ than any of your predecessors.”

The Pope nodded and vaguely indicated the nave. “The riots are not over yet. They will require camp beds … food, water … sanitation … medical assistance. The guesthouse of Saint Martha could house a few hundred at least. Parts of the Vatican museums … the rest will have to stay in the basilica.”

“Don't worry, father,” Lucrezia assured him. “We will arrange for everything. Cardinal Sforza and the Swiss Guard will help. You should rest now.”

“No. That is not all they need … not all we must give them. Cesare, my son … I would have you celebrate Holy Mass with me.”

“What, now?”

“Yes. Right here, at the papal altar, over the grave of Saint Peter. There is no need for a choir, or servers, or golden chalices. But let us thank the living God for our deliverance.” 

Cesare looked to his sister for guidance, who smiled and nodded. “Do it for him,” she mouthed, “and for the people.” So, he said: “Of course, father.”

The Pope stepped to the altar before him and, with a newly strengthened voice, sang: “ _In nomine Patris et ﬁlii et Spiritu Sancti, Amen_ _…_ ”

Cesare usually celebrated mass no more than once or twice a month, a serious offence for a cardinal, but not one he cared about. In fact, he was not even _allowed_ to celebrate due to his constant breaches of celibacy and other commandments and most irregular confession. He had never attempted to hide his indifference to all things religious. This was different: though another priest who happened to be in the basilica hurried to join them the moment they started, the liturgy was stripped to the bare minimum. There was no procession, no hymn but those required by the missal, no vestments. Since neither of them had the keys to the sacristy, his father, reciting from memory, transubstantiated what appeared to be a panini, and a bottle of cheap red wine of unknown origin and substance one of the refugees brought forth after Cesare had spent several minutes looking for a way into the sacristy. But it was valid in the eyes of their congregation, and they duly put on their show.

Then, Rodrigo Borja turned to face his congregation. “I invite you all to stay in the safety of these walls until you can return to your homes,” he said with a loud voice. Somewhere in the basilica, close to the altar, a man started sobbing uncontrollably, interrupted by shaky prayers. “If you require anything, do not hesitate to ask for it. Let us all give thanks to the everlasting God for His grace. Today is a sign from Him: that much is certain. He bids us ﬁll St. Peter's with His faithful, and restore His peace to the City and the entire circle of the earth. Today, we're witnessing a crisis in society. While humanity as a whole has never been richer, never more powerful, it also continually tramples the weakest of its members under its feet. Yet while distrustful souls see nothing but darkness descending upon the earth, We prefer to restate our conﬁdence in our Saviour the Lord Jesus Christ, who has not left the world He redeemed. Indeed, following our own Jesus' recommendation that we learn to discern _the signs of the times_ , We can make out amidst the darkness many a sign that makes Us hope for the fate of the Church and of humanity. Therefore We, at the time when, by act of divine Providence, We ascended to the Supreme Pontiﬁcate, have hence found it Our urgent duty to call our children together in order to give the Church the possibility to renew itself in greater glory! Hence, We think the time now ripe to offer the Holy Roman Church and the world the gift of a new Ecumenical Council, and We hereby summon all Our bishops, metropolitans, patriarchs, cardinals and the most eminent of our theologians to Our Vatican, that the Holy Spirit may descend upon Us and guide Our judgement. Brothers, sisters, pray for me, for Rome, and the universal Church. Amen.”

At last the Pope sang, “ _Ite: missa est,_ ” and Cesare quietly responded, “ _Deo gratias_.”

 

 

When the siblings ﬁnally found time to sleep, it was three in the morning. Exhausted, they nestled close to each other in Lucrezia's bed. “I'm glad to be alive,” she said, kissing him, already half asleep. “Promise me, Cesare – that we will never be parted again.”

“I promise. The man who would separate us will die by my hand.”

 

 

Several weeks passed. An embarrassed Italian government sacked its ministers of defence and the interior and put several Carabinieri commanders on trial for gross misconduct. Perhaps fuelled by the Roman riots, the north of the country overwhelmingly voted for independence, became the Republic of Padania, and had successfully reapplied to the European Union. In the city of Rome itself, every other day saw larger riots against austerity; and the commander of the Swiss Guard with papal consent strictly forbade the resident three Borja siblings to leave the Vatican walls without an escort of his own men. They had gladly acceded to the order, since the riots were slowly becoming all-out battles between the police, Carabinieri, and lately army units on one hand and militant insurgents on the other. Almost every week, the death toll rose, and the refugee camp inside St. Peter's Basilica was growing and growing, by now encompassing a good part of the Vatican museums as well as the guesthouse St. Martha and the Papal Audience Hall. They were provided for from Church funds, and cared for by members of the various holy orders resident in Rome, including the Knights of Malta and those of the Holy Sepulchre.

The Vatican remained an island of tranquillity in the stormy sea. As Cesare had predicted, the Pope's actions on the “Day of Outrage” had raised him to a prestige and admiration from the Roman populace not enjoyed by any reigning Pope since the days of John Paul I. Papal audiences and masses were attended by thousands, and Cesare quietly suspected that most of them cared little for the Christian faith. More importantly, of course, he had one day found the photos of himself and Charlotte in the post whilst _Chi_ and co outdid each other in the competition for the most glowing pæans on the papal family. Jesus loved him, surely.

“Signora Riario,” the Pope greeted the politician, kissing her hand. “Juan has told me much about you.”

“I ﬁnd that hard to believe, Your Holiness.”

The Pope gave a good-hearted laugh and led his guest to the pavilion in the English Garden where they would have lunch. “Oh, well. Please, allow me to introduce the rest of my little family. My nephew, Cesare …” – “Your Eminence.” – “The beautiful little angel you see here is my dear niece, Lucrezia …” – “Ma'am.” – “… and I believe you have _intimate_ knowledge of Juan already. Cesare, where is Joffre? I haven't seen him in ages, it seems.”

“Holidaying with some friends in Squillace, I believe.”

“Where on God's earth is Squillace? Ah, well, he'll have to show us on Google Maps when he comes back. Please, sit. I believe you know Dottora Giulia Farnese?”

Caterina Riario politely nodded at the professor. “We have met before.”

“Come, sit. I have taken the liberty of having the cook prepare a menu of Roman delicacies, it seemed appropriate. You're a vegetarian, I believe? I'm positively starving.”

The politician sat on the side of the table, to the Pope's right and Juan's left. Giulia Farnese had been seated opposite the patriarch at the lower end of the table, beside Lucrezia, who sat next to Cesare. Rodrigo called for the antipasti to be brought and personally poured Signora Riario's wine. “From the vineyards of my estate in Valencia,” he commented, then said a short prayer over the food.

“I see you have defrocked yourself,” Juan quipped at Cesare, probably thinking he was being funny. “Does a clerical skirt suit you no longer?”

Cesare had ﬁnally been able to set aside his cassock and instead opted for a light grey glen check two-piece suit (Savile Row, not Milanese), light blue point-collared shirt and pocket square and a dark navy grenadine tie, with platinum jewellery, which he felt inﬁnitely more comfortable in. “Perhaps you should try cassocks in my stead then, my beloved brother. There's not much even you can do wrong with them.” His brother wore a black suit with a white shirt and a bright red silk tie.

His sister was quick to support him. “Well, I think Cesare looks much better in suits than a soutane.”

“You could at least wear a cruciﬁx tie pin …,” the Pope grumbled with some slight annoyance. “Enough of that.”

“I must congratulate Your Holiness on your success,” Caterina smoothly changed the topic. “Your pontiﬁcate might have begun shamefully, no, disastrously even, a true disgrace for the Church and the Holy See, but I am glad to see you have managed to recover the wreck.”

Rodrigo mumbled something unintelligible.

“Even more importantly, S. Forza is growing stronger with every day that passes. After the recent riots, the Italian government is seen as the villain – while Your Holiness's ingenious handling of the crisis has made you the saviour of Rome.”

“Ingenious, Presidente?,” Dottora Farnese interjected, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed, Dottora. Deploying the Swiss Guard in defence of the mob was an excellent move, though it must have seemed risky at the moment. Surely you will agree, Dottora Farnese, that people love what protects them from that which they fear?”

“Well, what else is the Papacy for, if not to protect its ﬂock?,” Rodrigo replied, somewhat irritated. 

Caterina gave him a patient smile. “Of course, Your Holiness. In any case, right now, according to several independent surveys, a majority of the people of the Lazio region would vote to rejoin the Papal States. We must not miss the window of opportunity. In fact, we are already campaigning to hold the referendum within two months.”

“Well, I don't know about that …”

Cesare interrupted his father before he could have any further doubts. There was no question about it – the Borjas' popularity would inevitably decline at some point, and then the attacks against Lucrezia and himself would start again. Juan had the company at his disposal, but the two of them had nothing to their name and no protection but that which their father the Pope could afford them. If that protection included the resources of the entire Latium, the better. Who knows, perhaps the cardinal's frock would one day, after his father's death, do him good service again? Alternatively, there was even a slight chance to gain control of the new Papal States himself, without acceding to the Papacy. And that meant? Absolute power to do as he pleased, and that might go so far as to include openly taking Lucrezia for his wife … Still, there was something about Caterina Riario that seemed untrustworthy to him, and a look in his sister's eyes told him that she thought the same. “And … what if the government of Italy should refuse to allow such a referendum?”

“I assure Your Eminence, they cannot possibly deny it. Just yesterday, in fact, Prime Minister Trastámera has relocated most of his government to Naples, though President Ferrante seems intent on dying in our city of Rome.”

“Prime Minister Trastámera has also deployed several army divisions in the city to crack down on the rioters. Doesn't seem to me as if he wants to give way this easily.”

“Even if there should be no referendum, Italy cannot hold us after losing the north. That's the great thing about parliamentary democracy: the government falls with the prime minister, and sooner or later there will have to be re-elections. We can use that for our advantage.”

“And how, pray tell, do you propose to make the prime minister fall?”

“Oh, there are ways, Cardinal Borja, to make sure someone never rises again. Think of it as a crusade, if that makes it easier for you.”

“In any case,” Juan continued, “once he is disposed of, we can easily turn the insurgency into a rebellion, a revolution. Everything is prepared already, though of course we will not be able to ﬁght the Italians for long since heavy weaponry is hard to get on the black market …”

“You have used Borja funds for _weapons_?!,” the Pope interrupted. Lucrezia excused herself, giving Cesare a meaningful look he was probably supposed to interpret as a request to follow her, and walked towards the palace.

“Just in case,” Caterina insisted, recapturing his attention from watching Lucrezia's lovely behind as she walked away. “And I believe you will be relieved to hear that only a relatively minor part of our armouries was acquired with _Toroil_ means. Most of it was paid for by several of our major members, and, if I may be so bold, my own family has invested a few billion Euro.”

“What is your familial background, again …?”

“I _assure_ you, nothing can be traced back to the Vatican. Thanks be to Swiss bankers, otherwise the Southerners would have bled us dry with their taxes.”

“Excuse me, Signora,” Giulia Farnese asked, “Just to make sure I understood you correctly. You propose to have the PM assassinated and then start a war?”

“Roughly, yes. Of course, that is a last resort. I have to compliment Your Holiness, by the way, on the idea of calling a council. While the Church's approval will not be required, this being a matter between Italy and the Holy See, having the opening mass of the council coincide with the handover would be a potent symbol.”

His father massaged his temples. “I see,” he slowly said. “It is dirty, and risky, and not very Christian, but it might actually work.”

Professor Farnese almost dropped her wine glass. “You can't be seriously considering this, Holiness …”

The Pope waved dismissively. “No, no, of course not, my love. I'm just, er, evaluating possibilities.”

“While we are speaking of the council,” Cesare pointed out after a tense pause, “You will soon have to promulgate a Papal Bull to ofﬁcially convoke it, and set the agenda. Still, you have to consider that you are not only the Bishop of Rome. You are also the Pope, and have responsibility over 1.2 billion faithful worldwide. And while your popularity in Rome has never been higher, the Church is rapidly shrinking in the rest of the world. Your … _heroism_ is all well and good, but outside Italy, your critics reign supreme. I'm thinking Cardinal della Rovere and Father Savonarola here, ﬁrst and foremost.”

“Declare them schismatics,” Juan proposed. “Excommunicate them.”

“Water on their mills …”

“Cesare is right,” said the Pope. “We must not neglect the rest of the world in favour of Rome. It seems, I fear, that every step that would endear me to the people of Rome would drive the rest of the world further into the arms of my enemies, and vice versa.”

Caterina smiled and placed down her silver cutlery on an empty plate. “The council will do much to alleviate that. We will just need to take care that della Rovere has no chance to deviate from the agenda.”

“Is it _we_ now, Signora Riario?,” Giulia Farnese sharply asked, earning herself a scolding look from Juan and her own lover.

Cesare agreed, though. “You must allow the council to discuss your election and lifestyle to some extent, Holy Father, there is no way around it. We will need to take control of the discussion, of course. It will not be easy, but I assure you I will see to it.”

“If you will allow me to relate an anecdote, cardinal,” Caterina said, “My late father, Galeazzo Maria Riario, used to own a villa in the Romagna, near Forli, and would often give lavish parties there. On one occasion, he invited a dozen world-class chess-players for a single-elimination knock-out tournament. A match could last up to a week. The prize for the winner were a trillion Lire, then worth about half a billion Euro, I believe. Being an avid player himself, my father analysed the games afterwards and found that, in every single one of them, the winner had been the one who had taken the offence during the opening.”

“What did the losers get?”

“Nothing,” Caterina replied, smiling sweetly, “But they all lost a ﬁnger.”

The Pope crossed himself. Cesare reached for his glass. “Well, I for one hope to keep my ﬁngers, thank you very much. What do you propose, then?”

“For a start, Your Holiness should acknowledge your children. No more of the nieces and nephews nonsense, no one is buying that any more.”

Cesare almost spit out his wine. “Goodness!,” the Pope exclaimed. “I have no idea what you are talking … alright, alright, I'm the father.”

“You are the _Pope_ , father,” Cesare sharply said.

“Popes have had children before.”

“In the _Renaissance._ I don't know if you've got the memo, but _the Renaissance is fucking over._ ”

Caterina shrugged. “The mob appreciates honesty. Boldness. Everyone knows it already, so acknowledge your children you must or you will appear obstinate, dishonest.”

Rodrigo Borja gave a deep sigh and massaged his temples. The attendants removed the antipasti plates. “Where is Lucrezia?,” he murmured. “She's going to miss the next course.”

Cesare jumped at the opportunity. “She mentioned feeling unwell earlier,” he claimed, rising from his chair. “I'll go look after her. Excuse me, Signore, Holy Father.” He followed through the gardens towards the Apostolic Palace.

He found his sister sitting on a bench by the Palace of the Governorate, a ﬂowerbed depicting the papal arms to her feet. As he approached her, Cesare bowed down to pick one of the red roses from the shape of the Borja bull and gallantly bowed to hand it to her. With a faint smile, Lucrezia took it and inhaled its scent. “Did I miss anything?”

“Little. She wants father to acknowledge us as his children, though.”

“Can he do that? Canonically, I mean?”

Cesare hesitated and sat down by her side. “It's … complicated. Celibacy is a discipline, not a doctrine, that is, it can be revoked by the Church … either by invoking Papal Infallibility, or by an Ecumenical Council. I know that Anglican priests who are married can be granted exceptions when they transfer to Rome, but that's about it. Well … father left the company and was ordained a priest at 33, in 1987, when I had just been born. The rest of us were fathered after he had taken his vows. Standard practice for a priest in breach of celibacy is suspension from the priesthood … but he's the Pope … I really have no idea. The council would have to sort that out.”

“The Pope's infallible, isn't he?”

“I know of only seven invocations of Papal Infallibility in Church history, the last in 1950. All of them concern doctrine. In fact, _Vatican I_ has deﬁned that, in order for a teaching to be considered infallible, it must be the Roman Pontiff deﬁning _ex cathedra_ that a doctrine of faith or morals must be held by the whole Church. So yes, it will fall to the council.”

Lucrezia nodded, twisting the rose in her hands. “Constance,” she suggested.

“Might be.”

“What do you think of her?”

“Who, Caterina?”

“Of course.”

“I trust her about as far as I can throw her. She's not in this for the Pope, or for Rome, only for herself, that much is certain.”

“If she would assassinate the PM, she won't be above murdering father, either.”

“But her position in the restored Papal States depends on him, surely.”

His sister turned to face him and took his hands. “Don't you see? What she wants is a nation of her own, or at least a tax haven. She doesn't need the Vatican for that. I imagine she will use father to win independence, then stage an assassination to unite the people of Rome against its supposed perpetrators in Naples … and also remove the obstacle of a stubborn Pope in the Vatican. Father's successor is not likely to agree with him, as it is know, and will likely deny all association with the Papal States to save his face. The Church cannot prosper nowadays if it has a country to govern. And then? The Papal States will need new leaders. Who better than the trusted ally, perhaps even daughter-in-law of the Borja pope?”

Cesare kissed her. “Clever.”

His sister drew back from him. “You mock me, brother.”

“Never. But imagine, my love. Rome, all ours … and we, free to love each other. You're right, when our father dies one day, his successor will likely not accept Rome. But why does it have to be Caterina who takes over? When our father dies, whether tomorrow or in twenty years, we will be there.” He quickly snatched another kiss. “ _Aut C_ _æ_ _sar, aut nihil._ ”

“Caesar or nothing,” Lucrezia translated, straddling him. “My sweet Justinianus …”

“My Theodora …” 

She took his face in her soft hands and pressed her lips on his. “Long live Cesare, Imperator Augustus …”

After a long, long moment he broke the kiss, gasping for air. “And you by my side: Lucrezia, Imperatrix Augusta.”

His sister blushed a little. “There … there is something I need to tell you.” Somewhat confused, he smiled at her, brushing aside a strand of hair falling into her face. Lucrezia slowly slid from his lap and took a deep breath. “Cesare … I believe I am pregnant.”

It took him a moment to understand what she meant. He knew the words, surely, but coming from his sister's child-like lips they made no sense. Perhaps he had misheard, could it be Giulia Farnese carried the Pope's child? Yet Lucrezia's eyes betrayed a fearfulness that corrected him. _That Paolo boy must die_ , he thought, and was already thinking of how to ﬂay the little cunt for deﬁling his Lucrezia; make it last days and weeks and enjoy his screams. He must have raped her, for she would never betray him … but if he had, he'd know.

He was the father. It was his … “How … how could this have happened?,” he quietly asked, still bemused. “And when?”

“It's still early, so I guess … the night after the riots. I forgot to take the pill that day, and didn't think of it until it was too late. My period is two weeks late, and the test came out positive. So … yes, I'm pregnant.” She frowned. “Stop grinning like a fool, this is serious. In case you have forgotten, you are a Cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, so you must not have children … oh, and we're siblings, so we _really shouldn't_ have children. I've done some research, and it is likely to have severe disabilities.”

“It will still be our child. Our Caesarion.”

Lucrezia raised a brow. “You want me to keep it?”

“Your body. Your decision.”

She rose from the bench. “We would be awful parents.” Then, she smiled at him and took his hand. “Let's try anyway.”

Arm in arm they slowly walked back to the pavilion. Owing to the papal family's habit of eating outside when the weather permitted, the kitchen staff had set up shop in the Convent Mater Ecclesiæ and when they passed by it on their way to the English Garden, the papal sous-chef de cuisine was busy giving last instructions to eight servers in full black tie. “The vegetarian is for Riario, serve her ﬁrst. Everyone else gets ravioli ﬁlled with mussels, cheese, and pepper in a tomato sauce.”

“Which one is the vegetarian version? They all look the same,” one of the waiters asked. Cesare frowned a little, he had not been aware Vatican staff were allowed to wear beards, especially ones as unkempt as this one. Then he noticed that he had never seen him before. 

“That one's for Riario. The wine is a Sauvignon blanc from Touraine, 2001. No need for decanting. Ettore, you take one bottle, er, what's your name again?”

“Michelotto Corella.”

“Of course, of course. Help Ettore serve the wine. Now, off you go, lads.”

The waiters marched off at a brisk pace and soon outdistanced the siblings, Cesare brieﬂy bidding them not to wait for them with the second course. They were in no hurry to get back to their family, least of all with Caterina around. “She does not care for the Pope, nor for her party, nor for Rome and its people,” Lucrezia restated. “She will betray us the moment we outlive our usefulness to her. And yet, father will give her what she wants to increase his own power …”

“Whatever happened to Dante?,” Cesare dryly replied. Less than a year ago, the Pope had dismissed the restoration of the Papal States in any form out of hand, quoting _Inferno XIX_. 

In front of them, the last of the waiters seemed to trip over an uneven cobblestone and spill some of the wine he was carrying. “Damn … go on, I'll be back in a minute.”

“Can't believe _you_ come from _La Pergola._ Don't they have three Michelin stars?”

“Accidents happen …”

“Not here.” The other waiters continued to the English Garden while the unfortunate newcomer hurried back towards the Gardener's Lodge … then hid behind a large tree. Cesare and Lucrezia halted to watch him; he seemed entirely oblivious to their presence. The man reached inside his dinner jacket and apparently produced something very tiny. Cesare let go of his sister's hand and slowly approached him from behind. When he was only about one and a half metres from him, he realised that the waiter was fumbling with a small white capsule he was apparently trying to open.

“What are you doing?,” Cesare sharply said.

He didn't see the blow coming. Without letting go of either the pill or the bottle of Sauvignon, the waiter had whirled around and slammed the back of his hand in Cesare's face. For a moment he saw stars as he stumbled back, but his sister's concerned cry woke him from his stupor and he recovered in time to dodge the second blow, aimed at his head. He was not quite fast enough, though, his counter hit nothing but empty air and his opponent had grabbed Cesare by his tie. He drew him close and butted his head against his. Cesare was struggling to free himself from the man's grasp, tried to knee him in the groin, but missed, and he felt the tie around his neck tighten …

When suddenly, his grip loosened and his opponent uttered a surprised scream. Lucrezia had attacked him from behind, and soon the siblings jointly overcame Cesare's attacker and pinned him to the ground. He had given up all resistance, staring at them from blank dark eyes when Cesare reached inside the man's dinner jacket and drew out a semi-automatic pistol. Though he knew nothing about weapons, he recognised it as James Bond's iconic gun, yet threw it several metres away. “What was that pill?,” he asked, heavily breathing, and forced open the waiter's right ﬁst, which still contained the white capsule.

“Don't touch it, Your Eminence,” the man warned. “You might accidentally open it, and then we're fucked. It contains two milligrammes of ricin powder. Absolutely deadly when inhaled or ingested.”

Lucrezia gasped. “Father …!”

Ignoring his warning, Cesare wrestled the pill from the man's hand and held it to his mouth. “Who sent you? Tell me, or by God I'll make you swallow it. Caterina Riario?”

The man frowned. “No, Your Eminence. In fact, Caterina Riario was to be my target. I do not know the people behind my contact, but I imagine they're related to AISI. The _Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna_.”

“The Italian government.”

“Yes, Your Eminence. My job was to kill Signora Riario today, in the Vatican walls, and make sure it can be traced to the Pope.”

“You don't seem to be very good at your job.”

A grin appeared under the man's scruffy ginger beard. “I'm the best there is.”

“You failed,” Lucrezia pointed out. “And you were incredibly obvious.”

“Failure is always an option with these things, ma'am. And my orders were, after all, to be discovered … though only after doing the job, I'll grant you that. If I had been given free rein by my handler, Riario would be dead already and you'd be none the wiser.”

Cesare couldn't help but grin back. “So? How would you have done it?”

“Possibilities are endless, Your Eminence. Would have been easiest to just shoot her, but if you want it stealthier … I once killed a man by injecting a ricin pellet from the tip of an umbrella into his leg. Didn't even notice until he was vomiting blood. Oh, one thing I've always wanted to try is polonium-210. They used it for Litvinenko few years ago, but messed the job up. The symptoms are virtually undistinguishable from a sever stomach ﬂu for days, and you can carry it in a vial of water through any metal detector. Problem is, it's fucking expensive, and none of my clients would pay for it …”

“Clients? Plural?,” his sister noted. “So you're not with AISI?”

“I work for whomever pays me, Ma'am. In fact, I was recruited and trained by the CIA as a boy, then defected once my training was done. I've worked for everyone since – China, Iran, France, Russia, Britain, the CIA again; but mostly for private clients. They're rich, they're powerful, they want someone to die. They pay me, someone dies, and their hands are clean. The only ones I don't accept offers from are Muslim extremists.”

Cesare chuckled. “Why, on moral grounds?”

“No, Your Eminence. They can never pay up and insist on doing everything themselves.”

“So, you're a professional killer,” Lucrezia summed up.

“I also do children's birthday parties,” the assassin corrected. “Though it's more of a hobby. I'm the clown. No, really, I'm great with children.”

His sister raised an eyebrow, then let go of the man's arm, reached for the gun, and trained it on him. 

Her target's eyes widened, barely. “I'm not here for you,” he reasserted, “nor for your family. Just let me do my job and forget about me.”

“There will be no murder inside these walls. Not today.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible, Ma'am. You will have to kill me.”

Cesare grabbed the killer by the lapels of his dinner jacket and raised him to his feet. “How much are they paying you? No matter how much, I'll double it.”

“Impossible, Your Eminence.”

“Triple it, then.”

“ _Impossible._ I have a reputation to maintain. I can't go around _not_ killing people.”

A grin appeared on Cesare's face. “Which is why I have a proposition to make to you.”

 

 

Cesare slammed the day's _Repubblica_ on the private altar in the Pope's ofﬁce, barely missing the Borja family Bible. “Guess who's dead!,” he cheerfully said. 

Without a word, the Pope smoothed out the altarcloth, straightened one of the candlesticks, and returned the Bible to the spot he had been concerning himself with; some place in mid-Leviticus, Cesare guessed. Clearly not his favourite book. Even now Rodrigo did not deign to reply, instead ﬁnishing his prayers ﬁrst. Then, at last, he crossed himself, rose from the carved kneeler, and sat behind the large desk in the centre of the ofﬁce. “I do not know, my son. You tell me.” His voice seemed rather more brusque and strained than usual.

“Prime Minister Alfonso Trastámera,” Cesare triumphantly announced. “has gone into repose tonight in his summer retreat of Portici. Died in his sleep.” He did not mention that his death had been quickened by means of a cord laced in poison over the sleeper's open mouth. “Since President Ferrante also passed away last week, the country is virtually leaderless. Elections will have to be called. Riario called me a moment ago, her campaign is going strongly already and she's conﬁdent to gain an absolute S. Forza majority in the Region of Lazio, which should net us some 29 seats out of 346 plus twelve in the Chamber of Deputies and 14 seats out of 139 in the Senate. Not a majority, but enough to force a referendum. If we're quick, we'll have results by the time the Council convenes.”

“Hmm,” the Pope made, resting his face in his hands. “You are certain Trastámera died naturally?”

“There are rumours of murder, of course, but I wouldn't put too much faith in them.”

“I was hoping you might shed some light on the matter.”

Cesare gave a quiet laugh. “How could I? I learned about it this morning.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Is something the matter, father? You seem troubled.”

His father slowly shook his head. “Why would you think that … OF COURSE SOMETHING IS THE MATTER!” The Pope had jumped from his chair, knocking over the gilded cruciﬁx on his desk in the process. “I have just gotten off the phone with your mother. It is a disgrace! An absolute débâcle!”

Cesare raised an eyebrow. “What has happened?”

“It's Lucrezia. Apparently, she's pregnant! Good God!”

A shiver ran down his spine. He had known this moment would come, but he had never thought it would be this soon, nor that he would have to face the papal fury alone. “Yes. What of it?”

“What of it? What of it? Cesare, this is a disaster! We will lose all we have gained because of this! God, we'll have to marry her before the child is born. I didn't even know she had a boyfriend …”

“She doesn't.” Well, not in the usual sense of the word, anyway.

“Even worse, then. How could this have happened?”

“Father …”

“Did you know of this?”

Cesare nodded. “I did, Holy Father.”

The Pope was aghast. After a long moment of staring at his son, he sat behind his desk and raised the cruciﬁx up again. “Why didn't you tell me, Cesare? Did it not occur to you this might be of some interest to me, and to our cause?”

“I am the father,” Cesare ﬁrmly said. “The child is mine.”

“This is no joking matter, Cesare, and in very bad taste to boot. You know those disgusting rumours, they are dangerous. You must not take them this lightly …”

“It is no joking matter, I agree. I am the father of my sister's child, I swear it.”

Rodrigo sank back into the leather cushions of his chair, staring right past Cesare at the altar from dark and hollow eyes. “Good God,” he whispered, more to himself than to his son.

He thought about sitting on one of the chairs opposite to the Pope, then discarded the idea. He would stand, speak from a position of moral as well as physical strength. Cesare did not believe the patriarch was easy to intimidate, yet the way he slumped in his ofﬁce chair suggested that he could catch him off guard. “The child is mine,” Cesare repeated. “Lucrezia is mine. I am sorry you have to hear about it like this, but I am not, will not, and cannot be sorry for loving her. We were destined for each other from the day of our birth.” He paused for a moment. “I await your response, father.”

No response came. Unmoving, Cesare stood before his father's desk, as the clock on the wall ticked away. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Half a minute. Cesare turned to leave.

“This is my fault, isn't it?,” his father whispered. “You are doing this because I failed as a father. I could never give you children the love you deserved … is that it?”

“No, father. This has nothing to do with you, I assure you. I would, however, have your blessing.”

Rodrigo Borja deeply sighed. “The day hell freezes over. Do you not shiver in disgust at yourself? Do you not lay awake at night fearing eternal torments? You tread the laws of men, nature, and God himself under your feet. I do not know about your sister, but you, Cesare, are a depraved monster.”

Cesare waited for a moment. He felt the burning desire to take his father by his robes and throw him out of the tall window overlooking St. Peter's Square – but there was no need for such impulsive action. While he would have preferred to have their father's approval and support, there was no need for it. He would conquer without it, and Lucrezia would be his without it. Nor was there anything to be feared from him: once more, Cesare noticed how frail the patriarch of the Borja clan was, moreso, how weak he appeared. There was nothing to fear from this old clerk, bereft of all real power and hold over him. The Pope he might be, Vicar of Jesus Christ on earth, but in the end the Pope of Rome had always been subject to the Romans' Emperor. _Aut C_ _æ_ _sar, aut nihil._ When Rodrigo said nothing, Cesare brieﬂy bowed and turned to leave the ofﬁce.

“This has to stop,” his father said. “This must stop. I will stop it.” He rose from his chair and stepped between Cesare and the door. “Your mother and sister are at Castel Gandolfo, and will remain there for some time. I'll call Vanozza right away. Meanwhile, you will remain here by my side, in the Vatican, and spend your days in prayer and penitence. Your sin is the gravest crime there is, and I fear not even I can absolve you of it. But in the meantime, you shall reﬂect on its severity and serve our Holy Mother Church _ad_ _maiorem Dei gloriam_ by helping me prepare the council. We must make sure your sin is not repeated, hence, all further contact between you and your _sister_ will be supervised by myself and your mother until you both are back in your right mind.”

It had not been a surprise. He had done his homework, it was a usual ﬁrst response, recommended by everyone from petty-minded moral guardians to legal opinions. For a brief moment, Cesare was frightened at the ease with which he had adapted to his new-found gaoler's pronouncement: then he realised that it was only natural. Temporary setbacks had always been an option. It would be harsh to be separated from Lucrezia, but in the end, he would win. Must win. The Pope reached out his hand. “Your phone, Cardinal Borja.”

“I don't have it with me.”

“Your phone, now.”

After a moment's consideration, Cesare reached inside his jacket and produced his smartphone. “You are making a mistake, Holy Father,” he quietly said as he placed the item inside the Pope's bony hands. He supposed his internet connection would also be cut, but there were still countless ways to reach Lucrezia – say, borrow one of his secretaries' phone for a moment. And didn't he have a meeting with Michelotto scheduled later today? The outlines of a plan appeared in his mind.

“I never did a thing that was more right.”

He did not say it, but Cesare knew that the message was plain to see in his eyes. _You force me to be the Henry to your Hildebrand. The Brutus to your Tarquin. I regret that, but do not expect mercy._

 

**Author's Note:**

> The original version on FF.Net has some 45 factual notes at the end, but apparently AO3 does not support accuracy and indpendent research. Hipsters. For those who would have some explanations on what the fuck they just read, look here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9388949/1/Born-in-the-Wrong-Century (at the end, naturellement).
> 
> If you read to the end, please take a moment to review :)


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